by Brenda Joyce
“No, I am not. I would never do such a thing. I meant everything I said earlier, and I will add this—I believe you are far too good for a man like me. However,” he cut her off, “I wish to accept your offer if you have really thought about what a marriage between us would mean.”
She was so surprised, having expected the worst, that she lost some of her balance. He lightly steadied her. “You are not refusing me outright?”
“No, I am not.” He hesitated. “But I do not want to accept your proposal and disappoint you one day.”
“You won’t.”
He lifted his hand. “Blanche, are you certain? I realize that, for the most part, we get along famously here at Land’s End. But have you considered, really, what it will be like to reside together, even if for a mere month, in town? Have you envisioned me at the head of your table during a supper affair? Will you be unhappy when I must return to the country? Will you be annoyed, or even disappointed? And what will you do if you overhear gossips behind your back, condemning me, or even us both?”
Blanche was stunned by his tangent. “Are you trying to protect me?”
“Of course I am. I have felt the urge to protect you for some time now. I wish to protect you from a future of unhappiness—from me, if you will.”
“How can you predict such a future? I happen to think it will be an amenable one.”
“If I had a crystal ball,” he said tersely, “and saw the kind of future you envision, I would not hesitate to accept.”
Blanche gasped.
“I prefer your happiness to my own.”
“I am becoming aware of that,” she managed. “So you really feel some of the affection for me that I feel for you?” She began to reel—with happiness and hope.
“I do not lie and I do not dissemble. I said I care for you, and I do.”
She was moved, and there was the swelling of joy. She reminded herself that he hadn’t accepted her suit yet. “I have seen you in your worst moments, Sir Rex.”
“I was about to bring that up. Can you blame me for being surprised by your proposal when you have seen me dallying with the maid—and drinking alone at midnight? That night I was foxed, my comments were inappropriate—and some, highly suggestive. Yet, instead of condemning me, you offer me marriage.”
“I have begun to comprehend you, Sir Rex.”
His mouth finally shifted, tilting up ever so slightly at the corners. “Really?”
“Yes, and do not deny that the war and a woman are responsible for a great deal of your torment.”
He stared, his mouth suddenly turned down. “I will admit no such thing. We are both entitled to a few secrets.”
She did not like his choice of words—or the direct stare that followed it.
“I do not want to disappoint you,” he said firmly. “I do not want, a year or two from now, for you to find me alone at midnight with my demons and despise me, regretting this day.”
“I could never despise you,” she gasped.
“You mean it.”
“I do!”
He nodded grimly. Then, “Blanche, I cannot promise you I will be able to linger as long as you would like in town. I cannot promise you I will not be stricken with insomnia, and sit up drinking well into the night. Nor can I promise you that I will be polite or pleasant if you dare to confront me at such a time.”
She bit her lip, her heart racing madly now. He was on the verge of accepting her offer, yet he insisted on defining his every flaw. “I am aware that if I confront the lion in his den, I may get bitten. However, like a small dog, your growl is far worse than any bite.”
“I cannot dissuade you? You realize the pitfalls awaiting us in such a marriage?”
“I do, and no, I will not be dissuaded,” she cried.
He stared and she stared back. He still refused to smile; if anything, he seemed more intense and uncertain. “Then I must make a final confession.”
Blanche started. Fear began, bringing dread. Hadn’t there been enough confessions? What could he possibly admit to?
He wet his lips—a nervous gesture she had never before seen. “I will understand entirely if you decide to withdraw after you hear what I am about to say.”
“You are frightening me.”
He grimaced. “In all conscience, I cannot go forward without a declaration. Blanche, I have a child—I have a son.”
Her surprise began—she hadn’t heard a word, she hadn’t guessed!
“He lives with his mother in an arrangement made almost a decade ago.” His mouth twisted into severely unhappy lines.
And lightning struck—she knew. His broken heart was wrapped up not in the war, but in this woman, the mother of his child, and in his son.
“There are no other heirs,” he said as if reciting rehearsed lines. “I realized some time ago they could offer my child the kind of life and inheritance I never could.”
They, she thought. “Another couple is bringing your son up?”
He nodded. “His name is Stephen and he is nine years old.” He suddenly stiffened and turned away. His profile had become a mask of self-imposed control. In that instant, she saw that he was battling a profound grief.
Blanche’s heart broke for him. He mourned the child he could not acknowledge or raise. She wanted to comfort him, but did not dare—and she sensed that even if she touched him, he would break down before her. She knew his pride must not be compromised.
He inhaled raggedly. “One day, he will inherit a great title, one of the greatest in the land, and with it, a great fortune.” He slowly faced her.
His agony was expressed in every deep line in his face. “Tell me about him,” she whispered. “Is he dark, like you? Is he fair?”
“I cannot.” He limped away.
Blanche inhaled, hugging herself. After nine years, the subject of his son remained raw and painful. She knew she dare not ask the questions she wished to…but one day, she would.
He finally faced her, a dormant flower bed between them. “I believe I am doing what is best for my son. He does not know that I am his father. Until he inherits, he never will.”
“What you are doing is selfless,” she said softly, “and it is what any good parent would do.”
He nodded curtly. “Thank you. And no one knows. This is a secret I have borne alone. It is hard enough to accept without sharing it with my prying, opinionated family.”
“Of course. Your secret is safe with me.”
He faced her directly. “I see no shock on your face. And again, I see no condemnation.”
“I will not condemn you for having an illegitimate child. My God, half the ton has illegitimate children.” She somehow smiled, hoping to encourage him.
His face tightened. Then he reached out. Her heart soared and she gave him her hand. His fingers closed tightly around her palm—as if he was afraid to ever let go. “You are, without a doubt, the most generous woman I have ever met.”
“This is not a matter of generosity, Sir Rex. Friends do not judge, accuse or condemn one another. Friends are loyal.”
“Do you wish to rethink your offer? We have had a frightfully open conversation. I would encourage you to think about it.”
“I do not have to rethink anything.” She tightened her grasp on his hand. “My affection remains—as do my hopes for a future together. I am not dissuaded,” she added.
He nodded and then lifted her hand to his lips. She felt faint as he kissed it. “There is one promise I can make you. You will have my loyalty, Blanche, in every possible way. I will do my best to defend you and your interests, protect them, uphold them and cherish them.”
His vows made her sway. He caught her, placing his left arm around her waist. “That also means I will never stray, Blanche. I will never be unfaithful.”
She thought of Anne and hesitated. How could she let him make such a promise?
“What?” he asked sharply. “Do you doubt me? The de Warenne men are notorious for being rakes as bachelors—and then
being ridiculously faithful as husbands.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I have always known you would be faithful to a wife.”
“I will be faithful to you,” he said firmly. He hesitated. “I want to be faithful to you.”
Blanche let the tears fall and they were tears of happiness. “And what if it becomes impossible for you to keep that promise?”
He slowly became incredulous. “What does that mean, exactly? Are you suggesting I will want to stray? Why would I wish to be unfaithful? Are you implying that you will bar your door to me?”
She turned away, pulling free of his hand. If only she could confess the entire truth to him! She owed him the kind of confession he had just made to her. If only she could tell him the truth about her life—and how odd she was, compared to other women. If she could somehow explain that she had never felt half of what she had felt this past week, that angst and joy, desire and despair were all new emotions for her, he might understand that she was not an extremely passionate woman. He might realize they were not as well matched as he might hope in one certain area. At some point in time, she was going to disappoint him, not the other way around.
But she couldn’t reveal any of this. It was too humiliating.
He stalked around her, crutch thudding. “Will you bar your door to me? Is that what you intend to do, after a child is conceived?”
“No,” she whispered. “I haven’t any such intention.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Blanche hesitated, aware of her cheeks flaming. “I have lived in society for most of my life—and all of my adult life. My best friends are notorious for their love affairs. I understand them and do not condemn them, even if my nature is not at all like theirs.” She paused, hoping he would begin to understand.
He shook his head in confusion.
And she found a way to try to tell him what she really meant. “We will be spending months apart from one another. If the time comes, and you feel you need a mistress, I prefer not to know, but if I do, I will look the other way.” Hating what she had said, knowing she would hate any other woman, she was also, impossibly, relieved. She did not want pressure from him, not in this case. She walked away from him and paused to stare at a mound of dirt.
His crutch thundered as he swung around her. “That is the most generous—and absurd—statement I have ever heard. If I marry, I will be faithful, and I do not care what the marital circumstances are. I do not care if years go by before we cohabit! In fact, the mere idea of infidelity in a marriage is repulsive to me.”
She looked up. Sir Rex would never betray her, she realized, no matter what happened in their bedroom. Even if she disappointed him in their bed, he would be faithful. She had to wipe her eyes.
“I am not sure if you are stricken or thrilled,” he said harshly.
“I am overcome,” she finally said, reaching for both of his hands. “I know you think yourself a very dark hero, but you are a hero, plain and simple.”
And he seemed overcome, as well. She saw so much light flickering in his eyes, and she thought she saw hope and the beginning of joy, but she still saw torment, doubt and pain. “I am a war hero, perhaps, but not a dark hero or any other kind,” he said slowly. “Are you certain you do not wish to go to your rooms—or even back to London—to think about everything we have just said to one another?”
She shook her head. “I want to stay here with you.”
He nodded. “Tenacious,” he breathed. “And stubborn.”
She almost smiled. “I am feeling very stubborn now.”
“Then I concede.” His gaze held hers. “Your tenacity exceeds mine. I wish to accept your generous offer. I will be your husband, and do everything in my power to make this marriage a strong and pleasant one.”
Blanche clasped his shoulders, her heart thundering, and finally she smiled. “Oh,” she said, “oh! We are engaged!”
He tilted up her chin, his gaze finally moving to her mouth. “I will do everything in my power to please you,” he added softly. “In every possible way.”
She knew exactly what he meant. And desire was instantaneous—a response she could barely believe. But this entire week was like a wild dream.
“May I?”
She nodded and she smiled from her heart. “I do not think you need ask anymore, Sir Rex.”
He half smiled as his mouth closed on hers. And he murmured, kissing her, “Rex. Although it is unofficial, you must call me Rex now.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SIR REX HAD BEEN CALLED AWAY by a stable boy. Blanche walked to the edge of the gardens and then to the cliff, which dropped to the ocean below. She was beaming; she was so entirely happy! She hugged the shawl closer to her body, but she was hardly cold. It was unbelievable; she and Sir Rex were going to marry.
She didn’t think she had ever been so pleased or so thrilled. Who would have imagined that her life would undergo so many changes, and so rapidly, from the moment of her arrival at Land’s End?
And what to do first? They had a wedding to plan, and although they hadn’t discussed it, she felt certain he would not mind a small affair restricted to his family and her few dearest friends. And she had to write Bess, immediately—Bess would faint—and then she would shout with glee! And of course, she had promised the Farrows a supper invitation, and there could be no better time. They could even announce their engagement then.
Blanche started back to the house, her mind racing, envisioning the wedding ceremony, the reception and the supper party and all the while imagining what she would write Bess. She needed a wedding dress, something perfect—and they had to set a date. And when would be a convenient evening to entertain? Did she have something special to wear for the first event they were holding as a couple?
Blanche was passing the tower and her smile faded; her steps slowed. What was she doing? What was she even thinking? Sir Rex had just accepted her proposal, and they did have a wedding to plan, but did she have to entertain immediately? He had made it very clear that he was not interested in doing so. It had been a very reflexive reaction to instantly plan an affair. That is what she did—it was one of the things she excelled at. And she realized now that she could not wait to announce their engagement to the public.
But she had a lifetime to convince Sir Rex that some small social life was indeed pleasant, and they did not even have marriage contracts drawn up. There was no rush. Besides, he was not going to be as lonely once they were married, even if they lived apart more than they lived together. She could send a note to Mrs. Farrow, offering some excuse while inviting her to call, instead. Sir Rex would surely prefer that.
Blanche paused not far from the tower. She smiled again, realizing she was taking a better course of action, as far as her fiancé was concerned. Her smile deepened. Her fiancé. How she liked the sound of that.
And, dear God, was that love swelling her heart? She was very fond of Sir Rex, but just then, her affection for him felt suspiciously consuming.
She clasped her warm cheeks. First confusion and desire, and now, possibly love. After all these years, a miracle had happened. She was becoming a normal woman, with normal passions—and she was about to have a normal life.
She was, in fact, deliriously happy.
And fear seized her.
It was terror. Blanche stiffened as all of her tender feelings vanished, an acute fear suddenly clawing her, as if talons wished to rip her apart. She had no reason to be afraid—she did not know where such a huge, consuming fear had come from—and then she saw him and she knew.
She cried out, that terrible knife stabbing into her head, while the gaunt monster-man towered over her, holding a lethal object in his hand—something black, metal, with tines. His eyes blazed with hatred and he reached for her.
She choked in terror. And she saw a hundred such men, shadowy and indistinct, behind him, around them, screaming and shouting in rage and hatred, wielding pikes and knives. A horse screamed. Blanche turned. The ani
mal had been cut from its harness and was on the ground, legs flailing, being beaten by the mob. Blood ran…
Blanche covered her ears with her hands, sobbing. This wasn’t real—it was a memory! She didn’t know how long she struggled to believe that, but she found herself fighting the men, the sounds, the smells, the fear, the ground now spinning wildly. Shadows fell. Blanche welcomed them. She wanted nothing more than to embrace the darkness; she wanted oblivion.
But the ground steadied and the shadows grayed, receding. Blanche realized she lay still, the mob having vanished. But the memory was there now, etched firmly in her mind, a single bloody scene, and there was no more doubt that she was recalling the events of that terrible day. She blinked up at the gray, ominous sky and realized it had begun to rain. Her clothes were becoming wet.
“My lady?”
Blanche met dark eyes—and realized Anne was standing over her, staring.
Dismay roiled. She sat up. How much had Anne seen? How long had she been there, watching her, while she was reliving the past?
For this memory had become real. She had actually thought herself surrounded by a mob of raging men—no, she had been in a mob of raging men. She had seen that poor horse beaten to death, and it had lay on the ground, thrashing, inches from her. She had heard those men shouting at her, at everyone.
But it hadn’t been real, she reminded herself. It had been a memory, and now she knew her father had lied to her about that day. She could imagine why—she could forgive him for it, but she must not ever recall anything else! And she must not allow herself to feel as if she were a child again, lost in that mob.
“Shall I get Sir Rex?” Anne asked.
Blanche swallowed, feeling ill, aware that she was very wet now, but so was Anne. She met the maid’s unblinking, unsympathetic stare. In fact, there was no possible way to read the housemaid’s thoughts. ButAnne was the least of her problems.
She was so afraid, and not just of what her mind might tell her about the riot. Recalling a forgotten day was one thing, and actually believing oneself to be back in the past, another. Was she going mad?
